They sit in quiet rows upon folded linen sheets,
They gaze with quiet eyes upon the empty streets.
No movement stirs their breast, no strong heart beats,
The rows of quiet old ones, on padded seats.
The television mumbles in the corner unbeheld,
Puzzles incomplete are from their boxes spilled.
No interest stirs the old one’s eyes,
Which are with witless tears o’er filled.
The elevator opens with a swish and muted bell,
Dry mouths with spittle fill as the food they smell.
Old hands grasp fork and spoon remembering them well,
But tremble as they lift the food, and much of it they spill.
The meal soon over, trays withdrawn.
Untouched food the helpers down.
Mute hunger quails before the frown,
Frail bodies, each dressed in a gown.
Impatient hands do pull and press,
Old ones, jostled, make a mess.
In the hampers go their dress,
Futures grown now one day less.
The rows of old ones quiet lie.
Occasionally one of them will cry.
Occasionally one of them will sigh.
Occasionally one of them will die.
Paul C. Maybury Jr.
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-ones/
